


His Greatest Composition

by mogwai_do



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Comeplay, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A birthday gift of porn for Evildrem containing no redeeming features whatsoever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Greatest Composition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evildrem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evildrem/gifts).



It left him awed and harder than stone that Sherlock let him do this, let him fuck him open and leave him boneless and shaky. The high cheekbones were flushed pink and the normally pale eyes were nearly black - all pupil. John shivered under their regard, oddly alien in a way they normally weren't - daring and wanting and gleaming bright with a wicked kind of satiation. 

John broke Sherlock’s gaze with an effort of will, but looking down didn't help; Sherlock's surprisingly well-muscled stomach was a mess of sweat and come, pale skin flushed beneath the mess. John's hands holding Sherlock's thighs up and apart were rough and tanned and his fingers dug in hard enough to create a halo of white flesh around each fingertip. There would be bruises tomorrow.

Sherlock's cock rested spent and soft against his belly in a nest of dark curls spattered liberally with come. John could smell him with every heaving breath: sweat and come and sex and Sherlock. They'd need more than a shower to erase this: it wasn't that freshly fucked scent, it was filthy, obscene, and redolent of hours spent fucking. John knew he doubtless didn't smell any better, but it didn't stop him wanting to rub himself against Sherlock, wanting to rub that scent into his skin until it was all he could smell for days. Nor did it stop the drag of Sherlock's hands up John’s arms, over his shoulders, long fingers dragging through his sweat-wet hair and then bringing them to Sherlock’s own face, cupping them like they held water in the desert - breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and John.

John groaned like something deep inside of him was breaking free and he dropped his head, blinking sweat from his eyes he watched his own cock, smothered in latex and lube, disappear into Sherlock's body - an intimate invasion only he was allowed. Afghanistan was nothing to this. 

His breath caught as he pulled almost all the way out, watching the way Sherlock's body shifted to accommodate him, the way his arse clenched as if he couldn't bear to let him go. He pushed back in, feeling the way Sherlock gave around him like he did for no-one else, slick and hot and welcoming. He did it again. And again.

"John," Sherlock's voice was road rash - all gravel and burn. 

John blinked the sweat from his eyes, dragged them from the hypnotic give and take of cock and arse. He didn't make it past Sherlock's stomach where long fingers were dragging through the mess of sweat and come. He felt his eyes widen and his stomach clench as they were lifted, one, then two fingers disappearing between flushed and bitten lips with a rumble of pleasure that John felt more than he heard. He met Sherlock's eyes, his breath stalling in his chest as he watched those fingers slide in and out in counterpoint to his own thrusts. There were sparks floating at the edges of his vision as the fingers finally slid out, dragging over Sherlock's lower lip and leaving it slick with spit. 

"Breathe, John," Sherlock’s voice was all warmth and amusement and John did, gasping for a moment, his pace stuttering unintentionally in a way that nevertheless made Sherlock arch and groan. Then the long fingers were back, trailing across Sherlock’s stomach again before reaching up. John knew what Sherlock wanted, saw it coming with the few brain cells he had remaining, but the look of unabashed greed and oddly innocent delight when John took those wet fingers into his own mouth, tasting salt and bitterness and something oddly sweet, was pure Sherlock. 

John let his eyes slip closed, loving the feel of it, the way Sherlock curled his fingers just enough, teasing and tangling with John's tongue before drawing almost all the way out and then pushing back in again just as John's cock did. John gasped as Sherlock finally dragged his fingers free, pausing to paint John's over-sensitised lips with his spit and he gasped. He couldn't last much longer, but all this wasn't quite enough anymore. He'd spent so long trying not to come, to meet and surpass Sherlock's challenge, that he couldn't now let go. 

"John," Sherlock's voice dragged his mind from the ache in his balls, forcing him to look. "I need you to come, John," Sherlock's voice was low and rough and persuasive as only he could be. "I need to feel it." 

John groaned, low and ragged, trying to pick up the pace despite his exhaustion. 

"Fuck me open, John. Fill me up. I need to feel it." 

Oh god it was going to kill him, but what a way to go. 

"I want to feel you dripping from me, John; I need it to be your mark, your stain, your scent." 

John’s focus had narrowed right down and if he had more brain power to spare he'd worry he was about to pass out. 

"I need the evidence, John, it's crucial - prove what you've done to me." 

With a broken, ragged groan John came; pouring himself into Sherlock until there was nothing left of him but an empty shell.

A strong heart thudded steadily beneath his ear and there were fingers in his hair and bloody hell did they need a shower. The bed would have to be declared a biohazard on a par with some of the things in the fridge and John wasn't sure he'd ever walk again. With far more effort than it should have taken, John twisted his head to look up, seeing Sherlock's eyes closed in rare contentment, long fingers idly playing with John’s hair as they more usually did on the strings of his violin. 

John smiled a little, thinking that he had indeed been played and wonderfully so, but he also remembered one of Sherlock's rare revealing comments that the best compositions came when the violin played him. John lowered his head again, ignoring the mess for some other time when his whole body wasn't one big ache. Player or played, he didn't mind at all. The music was worth it.

FIN


End file.
